


Worse and worse

by TheGreenMeridian



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Blanky is explicitly jewish, Irving gets a good seeing to, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentions of past Blanky/crozier, dirty talk about Irving and everyone, esther is explicitly ok with this, irving’s magnum dong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenMeridian/pseuds/TheGreenMeridian
Summary: “Ah, that’s it, isn’t it lad? Not been giving it much of the old—” and here, he makes an obscene gesture.“I— I assure you, I do not—” Irving splutters.“Aye, and that’s your problem. Not good for a lad of your age, letting it get all pent up. Christ, not good for a man of my age at that.”
Relationships: Thomas Blanky/John Irving
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41
Collections: John Irving Birthday Week 2021, The Terror Bingo, The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	Worse and worse

**Author's Note:**

> The rarepair nobody asked for!
> 
> And a three-way fill for terror bingo, irvday, and rare pair week. Enjoy!

“Ah, Mr Blanky? You’re not supposed to smoke below decks.”

Tom looks up to see who’s bothering him. One of the lieutenants — Irving, that’s it. Quiet, awkward little thing. Though, that description suits all of them. Fitzjames stuck Francis with the lamest of the lot. Good lads, all of them, but a sorry bunch indeed by Tom’s reckoning.

“A man’s entitled to a pipe, at end of his day.” He taps the side of his pipe to level out his tobacco. “Few pleasures to be found alone at sea, after all. A man’s pipe, and a man’s own hand.”

He looks up to see Irving’s reaction; ruffling the feathers of stuck-up young officers has always been something of a hobby. Occasionally a fruitful one, as it it appears it will be now. Irving is open-mouthed and bright pink, and oh, Tom’s seen that look before. He grins, teeth bared.

“Ah, that’s it, isn’t it lad? Not been giving it much of the old—” and here, he makes an obscene gesture. 

“I— I assure you, I do not—” Irving splutters.

“Aye, and that’s your problem. Not good for a lad of your age, letting it get all pent up. Christ, not good for a man of my age at that.”

“It is a sin, Mr Blanky!” Irving hisses, looking from side to side as if Sir John himself might have manifested in Tom’s cabin to hear it. “It is a sin, of course I don’t—”

“Aye, I can tell you don’t. Don’t suppose you’ve ever let anyone give you a good seeing to, either.” Tom shakes his head and chews on his pipe with faux consideration. “I’d be happy to help, mind. Offer a man a hand in trying times. Or a more enjoyable replacement for the stick up his arse.”

Irving blinks at him, practically purple and apparently out of indignant words. Tom claps him on the shoulder and enjoys the little flinch it earns him.

“If you find you can’t stop thinking about my offer, I’ll be here.”

A gentle nudge has the poor boy back out in the hallway. Tom lays back on his bunk and lights his pipe. Shouldn’t have tortured the poor sod like that, really, but he can’t help himself. He’s always had a bit of thing for the uptight ones, the ones who want a bit of it but won’t let themselves have it. It does nobody good to let boys like Irving stay all afraid of themselves, and if Tom ends up being the one to help them find a way out of it, well, all the better for him.

As predicted, Irving is at his door only two days later, mumbling a bit of Christian nonsense about sin that Tom can’t quite hear and doesn’t care to have repeated. The next bit of mumbling, however, catches his interest indeed.

“Say again, lad? Old ears, can’t hear you so well.”

“I said— I said that— I have long been a sinner, Mr Blanky, in mind if not action, and I... I wonder if committing the act might help me...”

“Purge the mind,” Tom finishes for him. “Aye, it might. Can’t promise anything, like, but if you’re willing, I’ll take a crack at it.”

Irving nods with a darling solemnity, and Tom, soppy bastard that he is, leans in to give the lad a kiss on the cheek.

“Relax, son,” he says, planting his hands on Irving’s hips. “I’m nowt to be scared of. You just let me take good care of you, eh?”

He slides his hands up to the dip of Irving’s waist, and back down again. Irving shivers.

“What— what should I do now?”

Tom looks down and fuck, the lad’s already hard for him. Eager thing, this one. He steps back and sits on the edge of his bunk, running his eye over Irving with open lasciviousness.

“Let’s see what you’ve got for me, eh?”

Irving takes a deep breath and fumbles his trousers open, and Tom’s eyes almost come out his head.

“Bloody hell, lad.”

Irving turns an even more prominent shade of pink and fixes eyes on the ceiling. “What’s— wrong with it?”

“Width of my bloody wrist, for starters,” he snorts. “Not what I was expecting, from a such shy wee thing.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh’, he says. Jesus Christ, lad, you’ve the biggest on ship. Keeping this great beast hidden away and not even using it yourself. It’s a crime, lad.”

Irving’s eyes dart down to the solid jut of his prick. He swallows. “I... I’m not sure what to say.”

“Nout to be said, lad,” Tom laughs, patting the boy’s hip. “God gave you a mighty gift, I just think you ought to be using it.”

He tugs Irving’s trousers and smalls down, and taps his thigh until the boy gets the message and steps out. Shivering in naught but shirttails and stockings, he makes quite the sight. Tom is reminded very much of Francis. Same nervy edge to him, same fat pale thighs. Next time he might slick them up and shove himself between. Much as he loves a tight cunt or arse there’s something to be said for a decent pair of thighs clenched about his prick, and this lad’s got a decent pair indeed.

Next time, though. He’s promised the lad a good fuck, and Tom’s a man of his word. He shoves his own trousers off and lays out on his bunk. A crook of his finger has Irving stumbling forward and perching awkwardly on the edge of the bed. 

“C’mere lad, I’ve got to work you open, ‘fore I let you have me,” he chuckles. 

“How?” Irving croaks.

Tom gives his most predatory grin and grabs Irving’s hips. “I’ll show you.”

He might be getting on in years but he’s still got a good arm on him, and it’s an easy task to drag Irving onto his face quick enough to startle him into compliance. Those plump thighs tremble around his ears as he exhales deliberately over Irving’s virgin hole.

“Best you get a good bite of your sleeve, lad,” he says with a smirk.

Without further preamble, he shoves his tongue as far past the tight ring as far as it can go, withdrawing only to suck noisily against it. Irving lets out a half-choked yelp before apparently heeding Tom’s advice — the next sound he makes is muffled though no less lovely to Tom’s ear. He can feel him trembling, bucking against the pleasure Tom’s forcing on him, hardly able to take it. It’s always the same with these bible-thumpers. Barely ever lay a hand on themselves, in Tom’s experience, and too guilty when they do to do it properly. It leaves them sensitive, as like to go off from a touch to their face as their pricks. Even a good look and a few well-pitched words might have them go off in their smalls, so desperate for it they can be. Irving’s lasted this long but the tremors and sleeve-dampened sobs make Tom certain he’ll not last much longer.

A hand grabs at his where he’s clamped onto Irving’s plump thigh, and Tom has to laugh. Even now, cock hanging out and a tongue up his arse, the lad won’t pull himself off. Christ, he does love bible boys. Francis had been the same, all that Papist bollocks in his ears making him think the devil would have his eyes for breakfast if he let off some bloody steam. He’d let Tom fuck him every which way, take a few turns on Tom himself, and still balked when Tom had him toss one off while he watched. This lad’s a good Protestant but he’s enough guilt for the confession booth, and Tom never quite understood the difference between the two styles of Christian anyway. Both seem as miserable as each other, one just has better artwork.

He gives a hard suck around Irving’s loosening rim and that’s it. The boy goes stiff as a board, and Tom has to rush to shove a hand to the head of his prick to catch the flood that comes out of it. He waits out the final few tremors before shoving Irving down into his lap.

“My lot’s end of the book says it’s a sin to waste it,” he says, lifting up the hand dripping with Irving’s spend. “We best use it for something, eh?”

Irving, still bleary-eyed and red in the face, can only blink as Tom grabs his hand and wipes the mess there.

“Get me slicked up for you. Gentle, it’s different working with one without the scarf on.”

The boy stares at his hand for a moment, then down to Tom’s yard. Not half so impressive as his own beast, but Tom’s always been happy with it and it gets the job done well enough.

“You’re... I didn’t know,” he mumbles.

“Aye. Doesn’t change what I can do with it, mind.”

He takes Irving’s hand by the wrist and brings it to his prick, and the lad obediently takes it up in a weak grasp. Tom rolls his eyes.

“You can be a bit less gentle, son.”

Tentatively, Irving’s hand tightens and Tom grunts as he at last begins stroking. It’s too loose to do any good at getting him off but it’s good enough to get him wet and finish firming him up. When the job is done he hoists himself back until he’s propped against the wall and slaps his thigh. Irving shuffles up again.

“Bit extra for you, seeing as it’s your first time,” he says, plucking a pot of wool grease from his table. “Want your tight little cunt nice and slick for me.”

Really, he should put the effort in and get the boy nice and loose on his fingers first, but he gets the impression Irving’ll end up preferring it rough. He’ll not do him a damage, though, and it’ll be better for him with a nice dollop of grease at the lad’s entrance to ease the way. Irving shivers and closes his eyes as Tom gives him the extra slick, and his fat prick, already grown hard again, twitches its interest. He gets the boy perched on the head of his own and gives him an encouraging smile.

“There’s a good lad. Push out for me, like you’re having a shit. It’ll make me get in you better.”

“Will it hurt?” the boy asks.

“Aye, it might a bit,” Tom says, stroking the boy’s thigh. “Shouldn’t for too long though, and not nearly as bad as you’re expecting. It’ll feel like heaven after that, don’t you worry. Push for me, lad.”

He takes Irving by the hips and eases him down, grunting at the feel of hot flesh opening up for him at last. Jesus, it’s been too long. Francis won’t have him at all these days, hung up as he is on his fancy piece, and he’s not much bothered going after anyone else. He prefers it when they come to him. Men after a good seeing-to, men wanting to trade a suck, and lads like Irving - shy and in desperate need of a cock up their arse even if they’ve not quite admitted it to themselves yet.

“Hotter’n anything,” he groans as Irving settles fully into his lap. “Christ but you’re a gift.”

“Oh! Oh, please, it’s—” 

His frantic whimper is cut off by Tom’s hand over his mouth, a hand still sticky with Irving’s own essence. “Hush, lad, don’t want Jopson hearing you, do you?”

Another whimper and a jerk of his hips makes Tom think that perhaps he does.

“Aye, you’d make a fine sight for him,” he says in a low chuckle. “Lovely round arse spread open and stuffed full of prick. Bet he’d want a turn himself.”

He punctuates the last statement by grabbing Irving’s hip and forcibly rocking him, and the startled yelp against his palm is like music.

“Hands on my shoulders, fuck yourself on me proper,” he instructs.

Irving nods shakily and does as he’s told. His first rise is barely half an inch, and he winces terribly when he sinks back down. He’s just as ginger about the next few, but Tom’s not complaining. The boy’s like a vice around him and pretty as a picture, his pudgy face all pink and sweating. He doesn’t risk taking his hand from Irving’s mouth, so he’s left with only one to explore the boy’s body. A bit soft around the middle, like he never quite grew out of his puppy fat, and soft on his chest too.

“Lovely little tits,” Tom grunts, giving each a squeeze. “Nice handfuls, these.”

And then there’s that great monster of a prick, gone half soft from having Tom in him but fattening up again nicely and dribbling away despite the amount that came out of it earlier. Tom wraps a hand around it and gives it a lazy stroke.

“Can’t believe you’ve not used this on anyone yet, son. Perhaps I ought to let you have a go at me. Teach you how to use the thing properly. You’d fill me right up to the backs of my teeth, you would. Been a long while since I had a good fucking.”

He eases his hand off Irving’s mouth to let him reply.

“You’d— I’d be allowed to—” he stammers, managing to sound remarkably scandalised for a man with a cock up his arse.

Tom grins. He slaps his hand back over Irving’s mouth a moment before slapping his arse, revelling in the spasms around his prick and the startled gasp for air hindered by his palm.

“Aye. If you’re good.” He leans in close and lets his breath tickle the lad’s ear. “Get you trained up, so you can have our Jopson begging for it.”

In one swift movement he’s grabbed Irving’s hand and replaced his own with it over Irving’s mouth; in another he’s got the boy by the hips and pulled almost entirely off himself. He flashes a wink and slams him down.

Irving howls, clinging to his mouth with both hands and limp as a rag-doll as Tom works him. A slight tilt backwards and Tom is hitting him right where he needs to for Irving’s prick to start leaking out a nice stream.

“There you go lad,” he pants, lapping at the sweat on Irving’s neck. “You were made for this, weren’t you? A treat for any man. Might let our Captain have a turn on you, he’s a nice fat yard like yours.”

Irving whines again, his hands fall from his mouth and he instead buries his face in Tom’s neck to silence himself. Here, Tom can hear every whimper, every choked out breath, and — Christ, what a treasure this boy is — the fractured little pleas to keep speaking. Tom slaps his arse again for good measure and Irving jolts against him with a yelp. Yes, he’ll have this boy again. Fuck into his lovely plump thighs and his pouting mouth, have him bent over his bunk or on his back with his ankles by his ears, sit himself down on that great fat yard and fuck himself senseless on it.

“Who shall we call in next? Jopson... bet he’s got a pretty one.”

“I— I want him,” Irving whimpers.

“Aye, I know you do, lad. You want Ned Little too, don’t you?” He stills his fucking, rocking Irving slowly in his lap and letting his hand hover by his prick. “Tell me what you think about, son.”

“I can’t, I can’t, it’s not—oh, please, I need—”

“Tell me,” Tom says again, firm, demanding.

Irving fidgets, trying to fuck himself, but Tom holds fast. At last Irving slumps and gives in. “I—I want—this, I want this, with—oh, I think about it so much, with Jopson and—and Little, and the Captain, and— I’m—”

“A needy little whore, wants his cunt filling,” Tom rasps.

Irving nods and lets out a miserable little sob.

“I’ll fill you, lad, don’t you worry ‘bout that,” he says kindly. He clutches Irving close, pets at his hair. Bounces him lightly on his cock again. “Come off for me first, and I’ll let you have it.”

With difficulty he gets a hand around Irving’s prick and gives him a few pumps. The abuse of his insides has left him dripping wet, and so hard the poor boy must be in agony. If the way he squirms on Tom’s lap is anything to go by, the touch is almost as bad as nothing at all. 

“Close, are you?” he mutters.

“Yes... yes, please, just—”

“Fucking amazing, coming off with a prick in you. Better’n anything, it is.”

“Please...”

Tom laughs, not unkindly. “I feel good in you, lad? Got you nice and stuffed up, have I?”

Irving nods kisses vaguely at his neck. He’s a precious one, this lad, and Tom finds himself hoping whoever’s lucky enough to get the boy’s real attentions recognises that. Francis was the same, back in the day. A heart as big as the sea and body made for sin. And wasted entirely on women like Sophia Cracroft. Wasted on women in general, really, given how eager he was for a prick up his arse. Somehow Tom doubts Sophia is quite so unconventional as his Esther. 

He picks up his pace on Irving’s prick and fucks up into him as best as the position and his ageing bones allow.

“You’ve a lovely cunt, Mr Irving,” he says, his voice low and wicked. “Bet it’ll look even lovelier fucked open and spilling my seed. Shall we invite the men in to have a look when I’m done with you? Let ‘em see how I’ve spoiled you? Have ‘em all take their turn ‘til your belly’s swollen up with seed.”

“I— oh, Goodness, please, let me—”

“That’s it, let go. Come on my cock, there’s a lad.”

Irving stiffens, convulses in his arms, and his prick pumps out a few spurts as his insides try their best to milk some out of Tom. His eyes are unfocussed when Tom leans him back, but he laps obediently at Tom’s fingers when they’re shoved at his mouth.

“Bet you’ve not tasted yourself before, have you lad. Swallow it down, now.”

He grimaces, but does as he’s told. And Tom’s entirely out of patience. He grabs the round globes Irving’s arse and buries himself between, deep and fast and brutal. It takes barely a minute of it before he’s spilling into the boy’s depths, grunting out his passions like an animal and giving Irving’s arse one last slap for good measure.

“Fuck,” he mutters, falling limp against the wall. “Ah, Christ, I’ve needed that.” Irving goes to climb off him, but Tom taps him on the hip. “Clench down, ‘fore you do that. Keep it in.”

The lad nods and Tom groans at the feeling of the lad’s insides tending up around his wilting prick. Jesus, if he was ten years younger, he might be ready to go again on that feeling alone. He manages to keep the humour from his face as Irving awkwardly dismounts and stands there besides his bunk, arse cheeks clenched together and legs prickled with gooseflesh.

“What—what do I do now?” the lad asks.

“Keep it in, ‘til you get to your room or the privy. Or let it go here, and let me watch it drip down them lovely legs of yours.”

Irving’s face goes red and he turns away, and Tom watches with all the filthy lecherousness as is fitting a man of his position as those round buttocks go loose and a thick streak of his spend comes slipping out onto Irving’s thigh.

“Good lad,” he says, leaning out to haul him closer to the bunk by his hip.

He scoops up the mess on two of his fingers and shoves it back into Irving’s twitching, swollen hole, earning him a nice little whimper as Irving squirms in his grasp. He gives him a few thrusts before letting him go. Lifts up his fingers when the lad turns around. Of all he’s had the lad do, this he expects him to ball at. But though Irving frowns and looks none too happy, he drops his head and sucks Tom’s fingers clean all the same.

“You’ll make a fine little wife to some fellow”, Tom says fondly, when Irving is done. “Any’d be happy to have you.”

“I’m not—don’t call me that!” The protest is rather ruined by Irving scrabbling into his trousers, and the bright pink of his ears. “This will not happen again. I... I have faced my sins, Mr Blanky, and I’ve—”

“You’ve a wee drop of my spunk on your cheek, is what you’ve got.”

Irving blanches and darts a hand to his face, finding the sticky smear and sending a proper little pout at Tom. 

“You are worse than I thought! A completely unrepentant sinner.”

“Aye. I am at that. Though, my lot don’t see sin quite the way your lot does. Not that I hold much truck with my lot either, truth be told.” He reaches to his bedside and sets about preparing his pipe. “You come back any time now, lad. I’ll be happy to show you how to use that beast o’yours, like I said.”

He looks up at Irving and savours the flush and the indignant little frown on his face. Aye, just like his Francis, this lad. Might be that he can stop this one from ending up quite so miserable, too.


End file.
